


from way across the sea

by tobeconvincedoflove



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Canonical Child Abuse, Food Issues, Gen, M/M, WARNINGS:, adam has gone through some shit and he needs some parental supervision, adam is the dreamer au, adam is unwillingly adopted by the withces au, adam loses the plot, ages don't matter blue is the older sibling, buckle up kids there's so much in this au, i'll update it later idk how long it will be, like not specifically ED, most of it's past, witches after: son boy allowed, witches: no boys allowed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-10-22 10:25:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17660909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: “Oh, no. They’ve arrested his father, right?” Maura asks. “I’m assuming he’s sleeping?” Maura knows for a fact that Adam Parrish is not sleeping.Adam Parrish is a dreamer. And he’s clever as hell. Fox Way is about to have its first male resident.(title from sky full of song by florence and the machine)





	1. couldn't hide from the thunder

**Author's Note:**

> generic warnings for this fic: flashbacks to canon-typical child abuse, food issues and anxiety are the big ones. please know what you're getting into. It's a lot of dealing with Past Things so it's not going to be pretty. however i am very excited about this fic.

“Hello, this is Maura Sargent. How may I help you?” Maura already knows what’s about to happen. Persephone and Calla have their coats on, Calla with Maura’s in her own hands. They’ve prepared for this. 

“Hello, this is Mollie Richards, from Social Services. You’re listed as an available foster parent, and we have a child whose needs an emergency placement,” she starts. “Are you still available?”

“Of course. Where should we go, to finalize things?” Maura asks, already knows the answer. 

Adam Parrish is at Mountain View General.

:: ::

Mollie is standing in the hallway, trying to not look through the observation window into Adam’s room. She doesn’t know exactly what went down at his parent’s trailer, but he has four cracked ribs, a grade two concussion, and he’s completely lost hearing in his left ear. His face is beat to hell. This boy isn’t even sixteen years old.

He hasn’t slept. 

With a concussion like that, he should have fallen asleep hours ago. He looks exhausted. Sometimes, his eyes will close just a little bit, but he’ll pinch his arm or wrap his arms tighter around his chest and they’ll shoot open again, search the room with terror-filled eyes. 

The doctors think it’s something psychological. They don’t know if it’s anxiety or just remaining fear or what, but it’s enough that she can’t support Adam’s wish for emancipation. He’s going to need care, and there’s only one available set of foster parents that look like they can adequately support that. 

Three women, none of them married, in a house full of only women and girls. 

Mollie looks at Adam Parrish again, hopes he’ll have fallen asleep when she gets back, and goes to meet these women to discuss the situation. 

They are nothing like she expected. She thinks that this will work out okay. 

“Hello, I’m Maura, we spoke on the phone,” Maura says, worry lines etched into her forehead. “These are Calla and Persephone.” 

“Nice to finally meet you,” Mollie says. “They likely won’t release Adam until the morning, but there’s paperwork and things to go over.”

“Yes, of course,” Persephone says. “Is Adam okay?” 

There’s a long pause. 

“It’s likely that the investigation might take some time,” is what she goes with. “But there has been permanent damage. He’s lost his hearing in his left ear, and apart from bruises there’s a concussion and a few cracked ribs.” 

“Oh, no. They’ve arrested his father, right?” Maura asks. “I’m assuming he’s sleeping?” Maura knows for a fact that Adam Parrish is not sleeping.

Adam Parrish is a dreamer. And he’s clever as hell. 

Even concussed, Maura is willing to bet that he’s doing everything he can to stay awake. That’s what put up the red flags, that and the truancy. The psychic urge that lead them to register as foster parents last year has finally come to fruition. 

“He’s not sleeping. They don’t know why, but they think he’s going through something psychologically. Beyond just the trauma,” Mollie admits. 

That’s all it takes. Fox Way has its first male resident.

:: ::

“I really don’t get more warning about this?” Blue asks. “I’m not mad. But, like, is he?”

“He’s too concussed for emotion,” Calla says. “But, yeah, you really do get a twelve-hour warning that we’re fostering one of your friends.” 

“Am I allowed to ask why he’s not just being emancipated?” Blue’s voice is muffled, her mouth around the spoon using to eat yoghurt.

“Missed too much school because of Robert’s Dream Factory,” Calla says. “Also the whole refusing to sleep while concussed thing.”

“Ah,” Blue says. “Just so you know, you’re basically inviting Ronan into the house with him.”

“Yeah, we know,” Calla says. “Persephone and Maura are going to be back with him soon. I know that you already know each other, but don’t be weird or loud. He’s more skittish than a feral cat right now.” 

“Is he not just… mad?” Blue asks. “Like, is he even cooperating?” 

“Weirdly enough, he’s not mad and he’s cooperative,” Calla says, but that’s when the door opens. Calla is immediately on her feet, and Blue closely follows.

“Sup, Parrish,” Blue says. “I’m gonna go to my room, but let me know if you need something.” 

And just like that, she’s gone.

Calla takes a good look at Adam Parrish. His hair is short, uneven, and he’s _thin_. Bones are poking out sharply, his elbows and cheekbones too prominent to be beautiful. 

“Hi,” Adam says, face muscles pulled taught. He’s got deep circles under his eyes, distinguishable from the bruises on on his face, and it looks like every ounce of his energy is being used to hold himself together.

“Hey, Adam. Are you hungry?” Calla asks. They need to take him to a pediatrician in a few days, but it can wait until the concussion lessens. 

“No,” Adam says, winces at the sound of his own voice in his skull. “Can I… can I just go sleep?” Adam needs to catch some sleep, now that he’s somewhere where they know about dreaming. Make no mistake, he does not want to Dream, but if he does there are no explanations necessary. 

“Yeah, of course,” Maura says. “Calla set up a room for you. I’ll show you where it and everything else is.” 

“Thanks,” Adam says, trudges slowly up the stairs. Maura is close behind. 

Adam feels like he can finally breathe when he’s alone in what’s now his room. It’s more space than he’s ever had in his life, a nice bed with clean sheets and a warm duvet and a whole desk and closet just for him, but it’s not that; he can breathe because there’s no one else. It’s quiet and it’s dark and his head doesn’t feel like it’s about to implode. 

The ribs, the bruises, those are things he can deal with. He can’t deal with people coming up on his left, can’t deal with thinking. 

God, he is so fucking tired. Adam knows if he doesn’t do something he will pass out and maybe destroy the witches’ house. He’s never brought back a demon but it would be his luck that this would be the first. Now that he has his watch back, now that no one is watching and observing and trying to get him to sleep, he can set his alarms for every hour and hopefully it’s enough that he won’t even dream in the first place. 

This wasn’t what he planned. But Adam Parrish is good at adapting; he was planted in a desert and managed to bloom.

:: ::

“I think he forgets that we’re psychic,” Maura says into the rearview mirror. They know Adam isn’t sleeping, but he will fall asleep if they drive around for long enough. Two in the front, one in the back with a baseball bat in case Adam dreams up a demon. He’s concussed, and him denying himself REM sleep to avoid dreaming isn’t going to help. It’s also classified torture, so there’s that.

They learn after the first two days that the bat isn’t necessary. Adam doesn’t bring back monsters; he brings back bruises and scratches and hurt. That’s not great—it doesn’t look good for them, because it’s still a temporary placement pending approval, and him being hurt in their care is not a positive. It means either they’re hurting him or he’s hurting himself, but something is out of control.

Everything is out of control. Calla has been trying to get him to eat with the rest of the house, but he stares at the table at doesn’t eat anything. Occasionally, he’ll sneak down to the kitchen at night and eat peanut butter out of the jar. It’s never a lot, and Maura knows that he’s borderline on a dangerous zone; the hospital had commented on his low weight, and it looks like it’s not going to fix itself. 

The biggest problem is that Adam is still on high alert. They’re doing everything they can to ease the transition, to not push so that when the time comes he will listen, but so far Adam has not relaxed one iota. He is locked in his room or he is counting seconds until he can return there. His concept of time is seriously fucked, which isn’t helping: a day can last forty hours or seven.

“Definitely,” Calla says, watching Adam’s face for any sign of trouble as he sleeps. “He has an appointment with the pediatrician tomorrow.” 

“Lovely,” Persephone says. “That will be difficult, I believe. At least he’s sleeping now though.” 

“Hopefully this time he doesn’t bring anything back,” Calla replies. “We need to work on controlling the dreaming. He can’t keep hurting himself.” 

“Let’s focus on getting through this week. It’s a rough adjustment,” Maura says. “A lot has happened to him in the last six days.” 

“A lot has happened to him in the last sixteen years,” Calla says. “I’m just saying, getting ahead of the dreaming is going to be an issue. Especially considering his bastard of a father.” 

Maura looks in the rearview mirror at Adam. His face isn’t relaxed, but there’s no indication that he’s about to wake up any time soon.

_Adam really, really fucking hates this dream. It’s not a dream._

_“That’s not what I goddamn asked for.” It always starts the same. Ever since Robert Parrish realized what his son could do, Adam hasn’t been his son. Adam is his wish-granting factory, something to be used and used over and over again until it’s done right, until it’s what he wants._

_“I’m sorry.” There are pills, pills Adam had to dream himself at the age of ten. They send him crashing into a dream, but only for enough time it takes to bring something out. It’s not sleep. It’s not anything._

_It’s just a cycle. Over and over and over again until Robert finally lets him sleep. It can take days, days that Adam can’t remember between the haze of work and dreaming. Those times, his entire body disintegrates; he gets tired enough that thinking is impossible, that hunger turns to nausea, and moving becomes a herculean effort. But he goes to work. Robert Parrish has to sleep off forcing his piece-of-shit, no good kid to do what he asks, but that doesn’t mean Adam gets a pass out of work._

_“Again.”_

_It’s day four, or five, or something. There’s no school, no food. There are no walls._

_When Adam was little, he would dream monster creatures, all with his father’s face. His father would kill them, with a shotgun or a knife, would force Adam to stay awake so he could get some damn shuteye without worrying about his useless kid ruining the trailer._

_Adam has never had a door to his room._

_The feeling of being torn from dream to awake and back again is like his heart is ripped from his chest. No matter how many times it happens, it’s always the same._

_At least the one thing Robert Parrish has never had is ambition. He’ll make Adam dream beer and cash and lottery tickets but never too much, just enough so that he never has to work, not if Adam holds down a real job. A little for his wife, none for his son._

_Adam takes a breath, swallows another pill. His eyes prickle with how tired he is, his stomach empty and protesting and begging him for something other than this._

_There is nothing other than this._

Adam wakes up. He’s in a car, with Calla and Maura and Persephone, and he’s paralyzed. He hasn’t brought back bruises this time, but he feels like he always does after a forced dreaming bender—food is an absolute no, stomach hurting too much with hunger to consider food. He feels like he hasn’t slept in days. 

Adam has absolutely no idea what day it is. 

“What did you bring back?” Calla asks, as soon as Adam’s body relaxes from paralysis. “You only go still when something was brought back.” 

“Nothing physical,” Adam croaks out. There’s nothing noticeable. “Nothing bad. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Maura says, when she means to say that she knows he’s lying. Nothing is so dire that they have to push; it would be great if Adam did more than stare blankly at the floor when the rest of them eat dinner, and it would be great if he could get eight hours of sleep in a row without bringing back an injury. But it’s not quite bad enough that they want to risk pushing when Adam doesn’t trust them.

You see, they’re psychic. Maura and Calla and Persephone all know that something is coming, something that’s going to require a lot of time and patience and work. Something with Adam. 

All of that is going to need trust. And it’s not far off.

:: ::

There’s a taste of what’s to come the next day, the day before it happens. It’s the day they have to take Adam to the pediatrician. It’s objective one of the long list of getting Adam up to date; he’s never had a PCP and his record of vaccinations is just barely what the state requires for school. He’s been to the dentist exactly once, also because it was required, and there’s still a whole host of things the hospital thinks they’ve unearthed that need to be followed-up on.

“I don’t believe this thing actually exists,” Adam says, not for the first time that day. “Seems like a plot to get more of rich people’s money.” 

“We’re rich now, did you hear?” Calla says to Maura. She refuses to engage in this exact conversation again.

“Having a pediatrician is important,” Maura says, voice deliberately calm and slow. “It’s important to make sure your body is healthy, and have someone who can recommend treatment when you’re not.” 

“I mean, should be fairly obvious if something is wrong, and then you go to the doctor.” Adam has crossed his arms over himself in the back seat. They’ve also been avoiding clothes shopping, because they’re certain no parties involved will know what they’re doing, but it doesn’t matter because Adam seems content to wear the same ratty pair of sweats and sweatshirt. 

He won’t say that he’s cold, but Maura wouldn’t be surprised if he was. They keep their house warm, even warmer than usual because they are guessing that he’s cold, but there’s only so much they can do to replace the function of body fat. 

“Well, the state is requiring and paying for this, so it’s happening,” Maura says. She’s watching Adam’s hands fiddle with his sweatshirt strings; he’s clearly nervous about the visit, body pressed as far away from everyone else as possible and shoulders curled tightly. “And it’s a good check to make sure your concussion and ribs are healing well.”

“Seems unnecessary,” Adam says, and then turns his face out the window. They don’t say anything as he slowly but surely tenses up; Adam is jumpy and twitchy and wired as they walk from the car to the elevator, thigh jiggling nervously the entire time they have to sit in the waiting room watching younger kids play. Adam feels them staring, and he tries to turn his head down, pull up his sweatshirt hood. His face still looks shitty, and he knows he’s scaring them. They all will look at him and smile and then their face goes a little bit sad before they turn around and play again. Even worse, their parents follow their children’s gazes, and if he sees one more shocked or pitied face he is going to walk out, consequences be damned.

It’s not a relief when his name is called. 

Because then he has to follow the short lady down a hallway and she’s smiling and trying to talk and ask questions but Adam is too busy trying to memorize how to get out. They stop at a scale. 

“I’m going to need you to take your sweatshirt off, Adam,” she says, and Adam’s eyes flash towards Maura. They’re not pleading, but it’s shock and confusion and please make it stop. 

“Why?” Adam asks, curls further into the sweatshirt, hands disappearing underneath the sleeves. “I’m cold.”

“We’d like to get as accurate of a weight as possible,” she explains. “Especially because it’s your first visit.” 

“Adam, it will be quick,” Persephone says, and Adam sighs and pulls off the material. He’s shivering a little bit, thin arms hugging his sides. He’s glad none of the cute waiting room kids are back there yet, because he can’t look at the nurse, not when what’s been done to him by his father and his dreams are written across his arms.

They don’t tell Adam the weight, but Adam didn’t expect them to. He’s allowed to put on the sweatshirt, is allowed to massively fuck up the hearing test and ignore confused faces as his other vitals are monitored, and then he’s told to sit up on the exam table and Adam curls as far away as he can. No one is going to touch him, not with a needle, not with a device, not with anything. 

“It shouldn’t take long,” Maura says. “This doctor is great. She’s been with Blue since Blue was a baby,” Maura continues. 

They were very careful in choosing a female doctor. It probably won’t matter today, because it seems unlikely that Adam will relax from the tight ball he’s curled himself into, head on knees and knees to chest. But it will probably matter in the future, the near future if Maura is being honest. 

“Cool,” Adam says, voice a deadpan. “I still think this is useless. This is nothing that they didn’t do at the hospital.”

“Let’s see what the doctor has to say,” Calla says. “She may say different things.”

“It’s been a while since we were all in here,” Persephone says. “I think it was when Blue had that nasty ear infection when she was twelve?”

“Wow,” Adam says, deadpan. “Everything about this is excessive.” 

“It’s really not,” Calla says. “Outnumbering you is key, considering your general attitude towards this.”

Adam wants to shoot back, but it’s at that moment the nurse reenters with the doctor, and Adam squishes himself as far into the corner as he can, knees coming up to his chest. He hooks his chin over them, briefly releases his thighs enough to hook his sweatshirt hood over his face. 

It’s dumb and he knows he’s giving off all sorts of fucked up vibes, but it’s the only thing that makes it all somewhat bearable. And it very much demonstrates how much he does not want to be here.

“Hi, Adam,” the doctor says, all of 4’3, bird-thin, and kind. She doesn’t move close to Adam, stays at the complete other end of the examination table. “It’s great to meet you.”

Adam doesn’t bother replying. 

“How are you?” Maura says when it’s clear that Adam isn’t going to say anything. 

“I’m well,” she answers, unlocking her tablet. “How’s Blue?”

“Great,” Maura answers. They make small talk while the doctor looks at things on her iPad, and Adam lets himself believe for five seconds that maybe this is more of a social visit.

But then she turns to Adam. 

“So, Adam, there aren’t a lot of records of your health. It would be helpful to get some sort of history, so I’m going to ask some questions. It’s okay if you don’t know the answer, but try your best.” Okay, she’s clearly going with the kid-gloves approach. It makes Adam hate her just a little bit more.

Adam doesn’t answer any of the questions she asks. Most of the time, he doesn’t know the answer, anyways, and ones he does know Maura answers when it’s clear that Adam won’t. It makes him feel just a little bit childish, because he knows he’s being difficult, but the thought of anyone coming near him, much less touching or observing or analyzing him, makes him want to bury himself so no one will ever see his body again. 

“Okay. That gives some more background,” the doctor says. “Well, a few things have jumped out as points of concern.” Adam just bows his head, tries as hard as he can not to listen. He’s pretty sure everything that’s about to be said is something that’s liveable and that fixing requires more effort than it’s worth. “The most obvious is your weight.” 

Adam looks up, narrows his eyes. 

“Take a look at our best guess for Adam’s height and weight curves, from the sporadic data we’ve found from previous clinic visits,” the doctor says, offering the iPad to Adam. Adam’s arms curl around his knees, and so the iPad goes to the witches. “As we can see, his height didn’t really level off until last year, but his weight flattened out at the age of twelve.”

“That’s not good,” Calla says, frowning at the screen. “He’s not even in the colored curve anymore.” 

“Yes. His weight, given his height, can be classified as severely underweight. I’m going to make a referral to a dietician, because he needs to gain a significant amount of weight,” the doctor says. 

“Don’t need a dietician,” Adam says, voice cracking through the otherwise silent room. In an instant, all eyes are on him. “I’m tall enough, aren’t I? Aren’t malnourished people short?”

“I hope you realize being tall isn’t helping,” Calla says, voice careful in a way that sounds wrong to Adam. “Like, it means you’re even more underweight.” 

“I’m not underweight. I’m overtall.” Adam lets out a deep sigh. “Look, I don’t need a dietician. I don’t even need to be here. All of this shit will iron itself out.” 

“With all due respect, Adam,” the doctor starts, as Adam engages with picking his cuticles beneath sweatshirt sleeves instead of the four adults talking to him. “This is a serious health concern.” 

“I’m not dead yet,” Adam mumbles. “By this math, I should have died last year. I have access to food now, or whatever. It’ll be fine.” Adam looks at Calla, almost dares her to snitch. 

It’s too easy to give in the urge to tell the truth, not only because Adam is a disaster of a human who has no concept of healthiness or self-care, but because he dared her to do it.

“He definitely has access to food, but he hasn’t been eating a lot,” Calla says. “A referral would be great.” 

“I won’t go. You can’t make me,” Adam says. Calla is staring at him, daring him to say more, and Adam is staring right back. “I’m sixteen. I get my own medical decisions.” 

“We’ll discuss it later,” Maura says. She won’t burst his bubble about how much legal shit he would have to go through to enforce it, and how it’s more of a vote than a veto. “What else do we need to know?”

“I would like to check his ribs today to see if they’re healing. It seems like his head is coming back online after the concussion, but how’s his balance been?” the doctor asks. 

“Bad. It’s hard to tell if it’s the deaf ear or the concussion, though,” Calla answers immediately. 

“That’s to be expected. If the left ear is causing balance problems, OT is always a future option,” the doctor says. “They also had some odd blood work at the hospital, and I’d like to see if it’s resolved itself or not. He’s mostly up to date on vaccines, but he needs HPV and two of the meningitis strains. I can order those for today.”

“Sorry, no. You gotta pick; I can’t do blood and shots today,” Adam says. Persephone sends him a look, and Adam hates the disappointment. “I’m not trying to be an asshole. It’s just… too much.” 

“That’s completely understandable,” Maura says. “We can split it up. Which one is more pressing?”

“The bloodwork,” the doctor answers honestly. “Will you be okay if I examine your ribs? It would involve removing your sweatshirt, but your shirt can stay on.” 

“No,” Adam says, looks down at his knees. He can’t do it. He almost can’t cooperate with the bloodwork. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, but even the thought of moving one sweatshirt sleeve arm up enough for a nurse to find a vein makes his skin crawl and his stomach acid curdle inside of him. 

“Okay. You need to tell someone if the pain suddenly increases, or if it doesn’t go away within the week,” the doctor says. “I’ll send a nurse in to take some blood.” 

By the time Adam is in the car again, something is settling deep in his gut. Dread, thick and dark and viscous. The thought of being exposed to the public, of being somewhere open and where anything can happen is daunting. It’s dumb and stupid and Adam has no idea what’s happening, but it’s like every part of him is drifting apart from the others.

Even though it’s not the concussion, he can feel his thoughts slipping from his grasp. He doesn’t feel like a person, can’t handle the possibility of anything. He’s tired, exhausted, completely wrecked. His stomach is somewhere orbiting Venus, his arm muscles stretched tight from hugging his knees so tightly. 

His room, for whatever reason, as dark and unfamiliar as it is, is easier. Just enough to keep breathing.

:: ::

“Adam hasn’t come downstairs yet today, has he?” Maura asks Blue as she puts away groceries. It’s the next evening; they’re trying to give Adam space, especially because yesterday was difficult, but Maura has been in the house most of the day and she hasn’t seen him once.

She and Calla and Persephone had a long talk, yesterday. They think Adam is starting to trust them, and that means they have to start working on some of this. It has been obvious that Adam is thin, but he is _thin_ , and they’re all waiting for the let down. The doctor had stalled Calla, after, had warned them about it. When Adam finally allows himself to relax, even just a little bit, all of the exhaustion and pain and emotional sink of what he’s gone through is going to hit him at once. It’s common, in cases like his. 

“No. Haven’t heard anything from his room, either,” Blue says. “Wait, is that _junk food_? Did someone steal your body while you went shopping?” Immediately, she’s rummaging through the bags. 

“Don’t you dare,” Maura says, slaps her daughter’s hands away. “We don’t know what Adam will eat, yet.” 

“Has he even eaten anything?” Blue asks. “I’ve never seen him do anything but drink water at dinner. Also, there’s no way he will eat all of this so I will be snacking.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem. He has, like, taken apples or peanut butter or bread here and there, but never a lot and not often,” Maura says. “He needs to start eating.”

“Doctor visit went well then? Did he ever come around from the ‘I don’t believe PCPs exist’ argument?” Blue has her hand in a bag of Doritos. Maura sends her a dirty look, moves to take the bag back. “Don’t even be mad. He called Doritos shit-flavored the other week.” 

“No, but he did allow a stranger to touch his arm long enough to draw blood,” Maura says. “I’m going to go check on him. Put the rest of this away, and so help me if I catch you eating all of it I will be mad.” 

Blue just laughs. Maura is slow walking up the stairs, is sure to knock and wait before entering Adam’s room. But when there’s no response, she just calmly states that she’s entering and opens the door. 

She can’t see Adam. 

The window is closed and the bed is messy; she’s certain that he’s here. She takes a step forward, quietly closing the door behind her, and that’s when Maura hears it. 

It’s soft, almost inaudible. A whimper. 

“Adam?” Maura asks again, and again there’s a delay, and then another harsh sound. It sounds like it’s coming from the bed. But he’s not there. There’s only one place he can be, but it seems impossible that Adam could wedge his body that far under the bed. 

She crouches down slowly, laying flat on her stomach. There, in the darkness, curled up in the corner where the bed meets two walls, is Adam. How long has he been there? 

“Adam,” Maura says, voice as soft and calm and steady as she can make it. She adjusts herself slightly, and Adam seems to scoot even farther back, contorting his body more. “I’m just moving my arms. I won’t come near you unless you tell me it’s okay.” 

So many thoughts are racing through Maura’s head. How long has he been there? What’s happening? What is he scared of? How can they fix this? Is he hurting his ribs? Is he hurting anywhere else?

But Maura has to start at the first step. 

“Is it okay if I turn the light on, so I can see you better? I promise I will keep the door closed,” Maura asks, and she thinks she’s not going to get a response, until Adam shakes his head so slightly that it’s almost imperceptible. “Okay. That’s okay. I’ll stay right here.”

She waits, watches a little while longer and tries to come up with a plan. This is nothing like the doctor warned about. Something, possibly everything, is seriously scaring Adam to the point of _this_ ; she can see it in his eyes and how tightly he has balled himself up. Words are too much. Light is too much. 

She needs to do something. 

“Hey,” Maura starts, voice low and soft and quiet. “I know this is all terrifying right now, but it can’t be comfortable back there. I promise nothing will happen if you come out from under there—we can deal with everything later.” 

Adam just shakes his head, takes in a particularly shaky breath. 

“Okay. Maybe later,” Maura says, doesn’t move. “I’m gonna be right here the whole time.”

And she is, until it’s hour three of being on the hard floor. She has no idea how Adam’s bony and bruised body can handle the position it’s locked into, but she swaps for Persephone. 

Three hours later, it’s Calla’s turn. 

When Maura comes back, Persephone goes in briefly and Calla shuts the door and just sighs. 

“He has to pee eventually,” she says. “See if you can get him out. I think he’s tiring out—he’s going to sleep or need to move soon. I’ll go grab some water and Gatorade, make sure Blue’s okay.” 

Maura enters, Persephone leaves. Persephone just squeezes Maura’s shoulder, presses a gentle kiss to her cheek on her way out. 

Ignoring the lingering ache in her muscles, Maura sinks back down. “Hey. I’m back.” She sees how his limbs are all trembling, and she sees what Calla means. “Please. I promise, if you come out, we won’t do anything. Everything we can deal with later. I know it hurts staying like that.” 

Somehow, with ask number eighty-two, Adam nods. 

Maura, trying hard to not let her surprise show, slowly backs to the other side of the room. The only sound is Adam’s joints and muscles clicking and a soft sliding as he moves out from under the bed to on top of it, crawling into the same corner that he was in underneath the bed. 

He looks like hell. The dark circles under his eyes are deep and dark and violent, thin limbs trembling beneath his clothing. Maura doesn’t know if it’s from panic or pain or cold, but she knows she can’t approach him. 

It’s an improvement. It’s the only improvement. 

It takes two hours for him to unfurl from the tight ball, but he does not move from where he is. He does not sleep. He does not get up. 

Their plan is to give him the night. He only sleeps for a few hours total, never more than an hour at a time. He wakes in a panic every time.

At 8 a.m. the next day, Maura places a water bottle and a bottle of Gatorade on the opposite end of the bed, close enough that Adam can grab it if he moves a little bit, far enough away that Maura placing it there doesn’t scare him. He does not take either.

8:30 a.m. Calla asks him to drink the water. Adam doesn’t shake his head, doesn’t give an answer, but he doesn’t move. 

He doesn’t drink until 10 a.m. It’s a few sips of water, barely a quarter of the bottle, and the Gatorade remains untouched. 

At 10:30, Maura brings a sleeve of saltines, a box of graham crackers, and a packet of oyster crackers. She asks Adam to eat, just a few, just so he can get some calories. She gets no response. 

Calla joins Maura at 12:00, everything still untouched. She offers him everything in the cupboard, everything within a thirty-minute drive. Adam drinks more of the water. Now there’s only a quarter of it left. Maura retrieves another water bottle. 

At 1:00, Calla offers to leave so Adam can change clothing. He shakes his head. She asks, instead, if he will brush his teeth, if he needs to use the bathroom. 

It isn’t until 3:30 that Adam leaves the room on shaking limbs to pee, immediately returns and closes the door behind him again. 

He still hasn’t said a word. 

Maura loses track of the cycle after that, the only victories the single bottle of water he drinks in the next twenty-four hours. 

“Mom, what the fuck is going on?” It’s 4:00 pm, it’s a Tuesday, and it’s going on hour eighty of this complete breakdown. Like she’s done the last two days at 4:00 pm, Maura is about to call Adam’s doctor. 

“I don’t know,” Maura admits. “But I need a few minutes before we can talk.” She gives Blue a look that clearly asks her to leave the room, but Blue just sits down at the kitchen counter. 

So Blue hears what Maura says, as she describes the last twenty-four hours. If he doesn’t eat or drink something with calories in the next twelve hours, they have to bring him in. 

“Mom,” Blue says, voice shaking. Maura has just hung up the phone. “What is going on? I haven’t seen Adam in days.” 

“He’s… struggling,” Maura summarizes. “Something flipped a switch and he’s just in complete shutdown.” 

“Everyone is freaking out. Ronan is like two minutes away from marching over here himself,” Blue says. “And what about school? His jobs? He’ll freak out if he loses them.” 

“Ronan shouldn’t come over here,” Maura says. “Not right now.” There’s a pause as she allows herself one tired sigh. “I don’t think he’ll be going to school for a while. I’ll call his jobs later, when we have a better handle on what’s happening.” 

“It’s that bad?” Blue asks. 

“We can’t get him to eat, we can’t get him to turn on a light, we can’t get him to brush his teeth or shower or move.” Maura’s tone is honest. “We still don’t know how we’re going to handle it if we have to go to the doctor’s tomorrow.” 

“Can I help?” Blue asks. 

“No. It’s not your job,” Maura says, ruffles her hair. “We’re good at this parenting thing now. We can do it.” 

It’s so much effort to give a reassuring smile.

:: ::

“So here’s the deal. We need you to eat or drink something,” Calla says, sitting on the edge of Adam’s bed. “Or we have to go to the doctor.” She’s expecting the same response as always, which is perhaps a blink but nothing more. It’s not what she gets.

“I can’t.” Adam’s voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. It sounds like he swallowed rusted nails and is trying to speak around them. “It’s too much.” 

Those are the first words Adam has said in over three days. 

“Okay. Then we have to go to the doctor,” Calla says. “Please, please, please change your clothes. I don’t care if it’s another pair of pajamas but you need to switch everything.” 

“No,” Adam says. 

“It’s happening.” Maura’s voice is firm. She knows choice is too much for Adam right now, so she just lays out a new set and says that he has five minutes. 

Adam changes. He’s apathetic, even as he tightens the hood of a clean sweatshirt over his greasy hair and hides his hands in the huge sleeves. He doesn’t fight when Maura and Calla walk one in front and one behind him on the stairs, mostly so that if Adam faints someone can catch him on either side, but they’re at the door and it all changes suddenly.

Every single one of Adam’s muscles goes taut. He stops, hands wrapping around his stomach, face pale but chest heaving. 

He’s panicking. Bad.

Maura and Calla and Persephone make an executive decision, in that moment. They guide him to the car, Persephone in the backseat with him, because this needs to happen and if it happens quicker then the quicker they can get him back home. 

Persephone keeps up a stream of words, promising that they will be home within three hours and that they will be there the whole time and that it is okay, he’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe. 

Nothing works. 

Getting Adam out of the car is a herculean effort. It takes ten minutes of coaxing and promises that it won’t be long, that he won’t be alone, that they won’t let anything happen, until someone finally undoes Adam’s seatbelt and he slides out of the car. 

He’s blinking tears from his eyes, bony hands clutching tightly to his own sides. Even underneath the layers, they can see how much his chest is moving with each forced breath, and if Maura could just take him back home and let him feel safe and breathe, she would. But that’s not an option. 

Calla goes in first, because it will be better for everyone if there’s a quiet and dark room that’s not being used that they can get Adam into as quickly as possible. All it takes is a thirty second conversation with the receptionist, and when the elevator opens and it’s Maura ushering Adam in, it’s as short and clean of a transfer as possible. 

Persephone and Calla stay with him, Maura going to fill out forms and try and describe what the hell is going on. In the dark, quiet room, it takes a few minutes before Adam’s breathing becomes less harsh, and it takes a little bit longer for his muscles to unlock a little. 

Persephone is saying calming things, hand next to Adam’s own but not touching it. Calla is watching Adam watch the door, always looking for danger. 

The knock on the door comes too soon, and Adam’s breathing is immediately back to panic-attack levels. The doctor and Maura and a nurse enter, and Adam draws his shaking limbs as close to him as he can. His head goes down, no inch of skin visible underneath the sweatshirt. 

“Adam,” Persephone starts. “It’s okay, it’s just the doctor. Can you please open your eyes?” Her voice is patient and kind in a way only Persephone can be. Adam just shakes his head.

The doctor gives Adam a moment. Nothing changes. 

“Hi, Adam,” she says. “It’s okay, you don’t have to open your eyes if you don’t want to.” She’s staying as close to the door as possible, as far away from Adam as possible. But she shares an important look with Maura, and then Calla, and then Persephone. “Here is what’s going to happen. I’m going to talk to Maura and Calla, and a nurse is going to come in here and take a few vitals. Nothing with needles—just weight and pulse and blood pressure. You can keep your sweatshirt on. And then we’ll go from there.” 

When Maura and Calla leave the room, they hear the rest of the plan. They can’t let Adam leave until he eats and drinks something, and the doctor says it will be important to get in a consultation with a psychologist today. Psychiatry is further down the line, she says, because SSRI’s won’t work when his weight is this low, but she has a friend that she thinks will work well with Adam, and who regularly agrees to skype sessions instead of in person. She’s going to call her, see if she can come here to avoid more moving and anxiety than necessary. The pediatrician doesn’t want to speculate, but she says the the important thing, moving forward, is going to be therapy and time. 

Time, therapy, and a whole lot of patience and work. Maura is going to call Adam’s jobs, call the school, once they have the professional backing of the psychologist. School isn’t going to be possible, not when the priorities are ‘please eat, please brush your teeth, please leave your room’. 

Knowing that they have a plan doesn’t make any part of it easier. While Maura and Calla are getting a rundown of the importance making him eat despite whatever is happening in his brain, it takes Persephone five minutes to convince Adam to stand up and get on the scale, to let the nurse near him, much less take his temperature and blood pressure and pulse. 

The only thing normal is his temperature. 

Adam isn’t listening, but his weight with his sweatshirt is the same as the weight taken a few days before, which is a cause for major concern. Adam can only hear snippets of what’s going on beyond the ringing and pounding of his own blood in his hearing ear, but he thinks the nurse is gone and then she brings back Gatorade and graham crackers. 

“You need to eat and drink most of these before we can let you leave,” the nurse says, and it’s the first time she sees Adam’s eyes meet her own. 

“Can’t. Feel sick,” Adam gets out, between harsh breaths. 

“You don’t have a fever. You either need to eat or go to the emergency room,” the nurse says. “It’s just some Gatorade and crackers.” 

Adam’s breath hitches in his chest. 

“Adam,” Persephone starts. “It’s okay. Just start slow. Take a few sips?” She offers him the bottle. Adam’s hands shake so bad that he can’t open it. “Here.” Gently, Persephone takes the bottle back, cracks it open and hands it to Adam. His hands are still shaking. 

He doesn’t drink. 

“I feel sick,” he says again. “I _can’t_.” 

“I promise it will be okay. Just a few sips,” Persephone says. “Please just give it a try.” 

Adam takes one sip, grimaces. “It doesn’t feel good.” His voice sounds so strained, so defeated, so pleading. He is begging for this all to stop. 

“I know. I know it’s hard,” Persephone says. 

When Maura and Calla reappear, she’s only gotten a few teaspoons of Gatorade into Adam at most, the package of crackers unopened. 

“Hi,” Maura says. “We’re waiting to meet one more person, and then we can go home.” 

“We can?” Adam’s voice sounds wrecked. The bottle of Gatorade is put down, again. 

“He’s taken a few sips, but he needs to eat a few crackers,” Persephone says.

“I _can’t_ ,” Adam says, again. “Can we just go home? Please.” 

“Here.” Persephone has opened the package, hands Adam a single cracker. “Just one, Adam.” 

He chokes it down. Persephone hands him another.

She manages to repeat the cycle six times before the water pooling in Adam’s eyes threatens to spill over. 

“I can’t do anymore,” Adam says. “I can’t.”

“Okay,” Maura says. “It’s okay. It’s enough for right now.” Maura sends a look to the nurse, threatening a lot more than words can say if the nurse says anything. 

“Can we go home?” Adam asks again, his head bowing to his chest. Maura can see the muscles jumping in his back at the strain. 

“Not yet,” Persephone says. “Only a little while longer, I promise.” 

Once the nurse ducks out, Calla and Persephone follow. They need to talk to this Dr. Sarah Friedman before they let her in with Adam, and they don’t want to leave Adam alone. Especially not with a stranger. They hope, fuck do they hope, that she’s good with skype sessions. Calla can handle a lot of things, but she thinks repeating this with Adam again is something she cannot do.

Calla thinks she likes this doctor. She doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t contradict when Calla explains everything she can, from the background of why Adam is staying with them to the last few days. She asks a few questions, at the end, but she looks kind and strong and Calla thinks this might turn out okay. 

That doesn’t stop Adam from completely panicking. 

She doesn’t think Adam answers a single question that he’s asked, listens to a single attempt to calm him down. It’s just too much. 

Something has changed. Calla thinks of the angry, hungry, scared kid from the hospital, and it’s definitely the same kid, but she thinks this break is years overdue. He’s just had to hang on for too long, and everything has given out at once.

The good news is Dr. Friedman agrees to take Adam as a patient. She wants daily Skype sessions until they can get him functioning, is willing to move around times based on what is happening with him. 

They take Adam home. 

Maura tries, she tries to get him to drink and eat something else. That’s another thing—everything has gotten so bad, and Maura doesn’t have to be psychic to know how the next few weeks are going to go. They have explicit instructions that boil down to this: Adam has to eat. Don’t make it a production, just give him something and forty-five minutes to eat it. If it doesn’t happen, give him thirty minutes of break. Make him try again. 

The whole thing hinges on Adam being willing to try. Maura wouldn’t blame him if he couldn’t. She doesn’t blame him for any of this, flat out. It’s going to be hard, and there’s still the dreaming, but Maura thinks that there will be an end to this. He’s never had the chance to break, has boxed everything up tight enough that it’s going to a take a while to sort it back out again. But it’s Adam Parrish. If it’s able to be sorted, it will be sorted. 

It’s his stubbornness that will carry him through.

:: ::

“Hey.” Blue drops her bag on the floor, walks directly to the kitchen. All three of her moms are standing around the counter, which means that Adam is alone with the iPad and Sarah. It’s the only time she can find all three of them at once.

She hasn’t seen Adam once, since everything has gone to shit. 

“Hi, Blue,” Maura says, pulls her daughter in for a hug. “How was school?”

“Good. Got detention,” Blue says. “Josh O’Brady was talking shit.” 

“Blue, how many times are you going to punch that poor bastard?” Calla asks, but ruffles his hair. “Fifth time since kindergarten.” 

“I didn’t punch him. I threw a book at him,” Blue corrects. “You don’t want to hear what he said. I can just assure you he deserves it.” Blue’s plan is to leave it at that. There’s buzz around the school, because everyone knows that Adam Parrish isn’t there. If Josh O-shit-for-brains decided to comment on things he knows jack about, Blue might have set him straight. 

“Improvement,” Persephone comments. She’s currently watering down some Gatorade. 

“How’s he doing?” Blue asks, sitting up on the counter with a yoghurt. “He eat today?”

“Little bit,” Maura says. “His hour is almost up, and then we’ll try again.” 

“How’s the dreaming? I heard panic last night.” Blue sounds concerned. 

“Brought back some nasty scratches,” Calla answers. “He’s not happy, because the therapist thinks he’s scratching himself in his sleep.” 

“Honestly, the best possible explanation,” Blue says. “But it’s not completely accurate, so he can’t be happy about it.”

“No, especially because he has to talk about it,” Calla says. She switches the conversation topic, because they’re all very adamant that Blue doesn’t feel responsibility in this. They haven’t been keeping Blue away from Adam for any other reason than that they don’t want her to feel as though this is something she has to help with. Because she will.

But no one can stop Blue Sargent when she wants to do something. 

She does homework for a while, stares at her Spanish work and pretends she knows what she’s conjugating, but she’s listening. Blue waits for the sounds of Maura and Calla and Persephone all leaving Adam’s room, and then she sneaks. 

She knocks quietly, sneaks into the room and shuts the door. 

“Sup, loser,” Blue says, lays down on the floor and stares at the sticky stars on Adam’s ceiling. He’s laying on his bed. The whole room smells stale and sweaty and gross, but it’s nothing she hasn’t smelt at Monmouth. “You’re never gonna guess the bullshit in Mr. Rodriguez’s history class today.” 

“What?” Adam’s voice cracks harshly. 

“I hate these stupid southern textbooks,” Blue starts. “There’s so much _wrong_ information in them.” 

“Y’all doin’ the War of Northern Aggression?” Adam’s voice is a perfect imitation of their teacher’s drawl. 

“Yep. I’m going to actually commit a murder,” Blue says. She launches into the rest of her story.

“His class sucked. Every question was straight out of the textbook,” Adam says. He hasn’t moved at all, but he hasn’t run away or panicked so Blue is going to take this one as a win. 

“Huh. I’ll look at those before the next test,” Blue says. “He almost gave me a detention today.” 

“He’s trigger-happy with those. He gave me one for missing too much class. Makes sense, right? Miss too much class, have to miss more class.” Adam’s voice is completely even. 

“Nothing about that fucking school makes sense,” Blue says. She looks over to Adam. He’s sat up, and the hood of his sweatshirt has slipped off of his hair. “Your hair is long. I can cut it soon, if you want.” 

If Adam lets her cut his hair, she can wash it first. She isn’t going to ask how long it’s been since he’s washed it, isn’t going to comment on how shitty it all looks. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Adam says. “Not today.”

“No. I’m too tired for that shit tonight,” Blue instantly agrees. He hasn’t said no, so she’ll take it. “How about this weekend?” 

“Yeah,” Adam says, curls his arms around himself again. She thinks he’s picking at threads underneath the sleeves, and she thinks he’s starting to hit his threshold of Blue Tolerance.

It’s okay. She has time to build it up.

Blue Sargent doesn’t scare easy, and Adam Parrish is a stubborn bastard at heart. They’ll figure it out.


	2. open hand or closed fist would be fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello. sorry school is kicking my ass. im gonna finish this fic tho. sorry this is so bad in advance.
> 
> uhhhh most of the warnigns of hte last chapter should apply: adam is struggling hard core, so there's lots of food issues and sleep issues and anxiety issues, so pls consider. i think robert is vaguely mentioned, but there's not a lot of specific discussion about how much of a dick robert is.

“Hi, Adam.” Adam does not hold the iPad. He lets the iPad stare at his ceiling. It’s what she deserves. “Adam, you know the drill. Face needs to be in the shot.”

“Don’t want to hold it,” Adam grumbles, but he rolls onto his stomach and props the iPad against the wall. “There. Hi, Sarah.” 

“How are you today, Adam?” Sarah asks. Adam ducks his head, fiddles with the strings on his sweatshirt. “I heard you had more nightmares last night.” 

Nightmares, alternatively named: Adam brought back long scratches inflamed by salt water, and the salt water still in his lungs. Calla had almost lost it when the paralysis left him on his back and choking on the water. His sheets had to be changed after the gross bile-mixed liquid had ended up on them, Calla’s priority turning Adam on his side instead of protecting the bed covers.

“Tired,” Adam says. “Things are hard today. I feel sick.”

“Have you left your room?” Sarah asks. She has the same backdrop as always; Adam can see her desk chair and her bookshelves and her suffering succulents. 

“No,” Adam admits. “Can’t.” 

“What about food?” Sarah asks. She already knows the logistics of the last twenty-four hours; she likes hearing about how he’s functioning from one of his moms, because it’s a good comparison both with what he thinks he’s doing and with what’s actually going on in his head. Sometimes, there’s a mismatch, and though Adam might not be functioning the anxiety isn’t suffocating. 

Today is not one of those days, it seems.

“No. Feel nauseous,” Adam gets out. “They’ve tried, but I’ve thrown it up. And I have to go to the fucking dietician today, too.” 

“Hmm,” Sarah says. “Could that be adding to the anxiety?” 

“No shit,” Adam replies. 

“Well, there’s no getting around it. You brush your teeth yet?” Sarah asks. 

“Take a guess,” Adam responds, pauses. “Please don’t make me do it.” The last three business days, Sarah has not relented until Adam takes the iPad into the bathroom and brushes his teeth. “Aren’t we supposed to talk about feelings or something?”

“Do you want to do that?” Sarah asks. “We can. We can talk about your nightmares instead.” 

“I don’t want to do that,” Adam mumbles. “How are your dogs?”

“After you brush your teeth.” Sarah’s voice is firm. “No distractions.”

“It’s too much,” Adam says. “I can’t even sit up.”

“Tell me more. What is making it impossible?” Sarah guides. Adam lets out a frustrated sigh. He thinks they have the same conversations over and over again, that nothing has changed. 

“I’m scared and tired.” Adam says it in a huff. “My head and stomach and muscles hurt. I can’t…” Adam shakes his head. Sarah just waits, hopes he continues by himself. “I thought about having to go, you know, to the appointment, and I… it was bad.”

“Let’s break it down,” Sarah says. She has one overarching strategy: make the next ten minutes bearable, and then the next, until it can become the next twenty minutes, or the next hours, or the next day. “The appointment isn’t for a few hours. Next five minutes. Let’s make a plan.” 

“Fine,” Adam says, which is as cooperative as he gets. Especially today.

He feels like someone took him and one of those meat hammers and stretched his own skin so thin and tight back over his bones that he can’t escape the tension. He can feel his bones about to break under the strain; his entire chest feels tight, ribs creaking and fracturing and lungs shrinking and shrivelling. There’s nothing he can do to release the pressure; it just builds and builds and builds until it’s unbearable and then it keeps going. 

Adam’s stomach is writhing, tendrils squirming like worms in a bucket. 

Sarah gets him through the next ten minutes. And the next. 

At the end of the hour, Adam has brushed his teeth. She tells him the goal for the twenty-three hours in between is to shower and eat two meals. 

Adam tells her not to count on it. 

Persephone and Calla enter the room, just as she’s saying her goodbye. He flops back on his back, the curls up with his back to them. Maybe if he just lays still they won’t see him and whatever food is in their hands will be ignored. 

“Come on, Adam. We have to try to keep something down,” Persephone says, and he feels the bed dip as she sits at the foot of it. “Just some Ensure.” 

“No,” Adam croaks out. “I feel sick.” 

Here’s the thing: that isn’t as helpful as he thinks it is. Adam saying that means anything from ‘I’m anxious’ to ‘I’m literally bleeding out’. But Calla will always humor him. She’ll feel his forehead, declare that he doesn’t have a fever, and try to move on from it. 

“Let’s check your temperature,” Calla says, uses a thermometer and everything. As always, it’s the same. “Nope, no fever. So we’re going to try.” 

“Doesn’t mean I’m not sick. I’m nauseous and dizzy. I don’t want to.” Adam’s voice breaks, just a little. 

“The doctor says that if there’s no fever, there’s nothing physically wrong with your stomach. Eating might help with the dizziness,” Persephone coaxes. She presses the bottle into Adam’s hand. It’s still sealed. 

That’s the other thing. Somehow, the anxiety is also translating to ‘what if all of the food is poisoned’? He needs to see everything that’s made, or it needs to still be sealed. It’s fine, and it’s manageable, but it’s just another hurdle they have to leap to get Adam to eat. 

Adam takes a deep breath, and then another. He doesn’t look at either of them, cannot look at Persephone because he cannot handle how patient she’s going to be. It’s slightly easier, that he can identify that this is happening because he’s anxious and not because he’s sick, but that’s a marginal change. It doesn’t change the fact that he feels like if he opens his mouth he’s going to throw up, that his head is pounding and his chest is aching and his hands are shaking. 

Persephone speaks softly, so that Adam can’t ignore her. Adam takes a drink. After it’s gone, it becomes a whole new game.

“Can you leave me alone now?” Adam asks. 

“You know we can’t,” Persephone says. It’s true; just because the food went down doesn’t mean it will stay there. For the next two hours, any reference to any aspect of Adam having a body is enough to send him running to the bathroom to vomit. According to both the dietician and Sarah, he’s just a very suggestible vomiter. They’ve learned that the hard way. 

“Please.” It’s the closest Adam has come to begging today. “It’s too much.”

“Even better reason not to leave you alone, bud,” Calla says. “If you want, taking a nap might be a good idea. You didn’t sleep a lot last night.”

“Nightmares,” Adam answers. 

“You can try the medication your pediatrician prescribed tonight,” Calla responds. “Ativan might be strong enough to knock out the dreaming.” 

“Why not now?” Adam sounds completely and utterly miserable. 

“Because we have to leave in two hours.” 

That was the wrong thing to say. Adam is immediately running to the bathroom.

:: ::

“We’re going to do another gown weight, Adam.” Sharon, the dietician’s nurse, says. Adam just looks at her; he’s cold right now, and he’s in two shirts, a sweatshirt, and is hiding underneath a blanket he managed to argue into carrying in with him. Calla says they’re going to burn it later.

“Just weigh the clothes. Then you don’t have to do this every time,” Adam mumbles. He curls in a little tighter, and Calla sighs. 

“Quicker you do it, quicker we go home,” Maura comments. 

At some level, Adam doesn’t know why he’s bothering to fight. He had been wrangled into taking a shower after the latest vomiting session, so his skin feels itchy from being scrubbed with his Dollar Store soap, legs shaky even though he had sat down for most of it. It doesn’t matter what he wants or what he can’t do—he has to do it anyways. His heart is going to finally escape his chest with how fast its beating with anxiety, his hands shaking too much to even grip the blanket anymore.

Adam knows he shouldn’t glare at the other kids travelling through the hallway when he has to be led to a different room to change. But they stare at him, and they ask their parents what’s wrong with him, and it makes everyone just a little bit worse. At least his humiliation isn’t public, when he finally has to step absolutely trembling in the thin gown onto the scale. 

He feels like he’ll never be warm, never be safe again.

“So, Adam, walk me through the last twenty-four hours,” Sharon says, when Adam’s done shoving clothes back onto his body as quickly as possible. 

“Haven’t kept anything down,” Adam says. “Tried every three hours. Can we go back to the moms now?” 

“Yes, but be prepared to eat something before you leave,” Sharon warns. Adam allows himself one groan. 

“Tell it to me quick. How pissed is he gonna be?” Adam’s trying really hard to keep the anxiety pushed deep down, to not let it show on the surface, but his skin is absolutely crawling and the thought of being Sternly Addressed by this man is pushing Adam further towards the edge of completely losing his shit. 

“He’s never mad at you, Adam,” Sharon says, as she leads him back. “But you did lose weight again.”

“Shocking,” Adam gets out. “Fits the pattern.” 

“It’s not a good pattern to fit,” Sharon comments, but then they’re back in the room and Adam carefully hides on the exam table farther back than the layer of moms. It feels like a shield, even though Adam knows it really isn’t. 

“What’s not a good pattern?” Calla asks, even though her eyes are focused on Adam’s attempts to pull his arms back into the body of the sweatshirt so he can cross them over his torso without exposing any skin. 

“His weight keeps oscillating. It’s slowly, overall, going up, but it’s going up and down way too much.” Sharon is looking at Adam now, too, because he has fully become lost in the sweatshirt. Calla has called it turtling, but Sharon hasn’t seen it firsthand until now. 

“The last twenty-four hours haven’t been great,” Maura says hesitantly. “He hasn’t kept anything down. He has tried, though.” 

“He’s gonna be mad,” Adam forces out. “He’s gonna say the shit about the ER again.” 

“Not eating for 24 hours is grounds for the ER,” Sharon comments. “That is not going to change.” 

“The doctor isn’t mad at you,” Calla says, probably for the thirtieth time that day. “We just have to keep something down here, then.” 

She says this optimistically. Calla knows there’s a nonzero chance that they’ll end up having to go to the ER for an IV today; it’s happened both visits in the last two weeks. 

“Good fucking luck,” Adam gets out, voice muffled by the sweatshirt. That’s when the dietician knocks, and then enters.

“Hello,” Persephone greets, as Adam just retreats back into his sweatshirt. Now he also has the blanket wrapped tight around himself, but the dietician doesn’t even look phased. 

“Hi, Adam,” he says. He doesn’t care how openly hostile this kid is—he refuses to let him die of malnutrition just to make Adam more agreeable. The only thing as striking as Adam’s pain tolerance is his inability to admit that there’s a problem.

Adam just glares at him. That’s fine. 

“So, we’re still seeing a lot of weight fluctuation,” he starts off with. “What we really need to be seeing is consistent weight gain.” 

“Anxiety and nausea are still strongly linked,” Calla explains. “He is trying to eat more often, but keeping it down is the tricky part right now.” 

“Well, he needs to keep it down,” the dietician says. “Obviously no physical activity. I can prescribe anti-emetics, if you think that would help. Otherwise just prelude eating with Pedialyte.” 

“Don’t like Pedialyte,” Adam gets out. 

“We’re rotating through flavors,” Maura says. “I’m sure some will stick.” Everything is coded language, now; if they want him to eat something and keep it down, nothing about vomiting can be explicitly said before-hand, during, or after. 

“Well, we’ll give it a shot right now. If what Sharon said is accurate, he hasn’t kept anything down in over a day? He needs to eat ASAP or go to the ER,” the dietician decides.

“Whoop, there it is.” Adam’s voice is a deadpan. Calla just sends him one of those looks, the ones that suggest maybe he should considering not doing that. 

“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t necessary,” the dietician says. Adam briefly wonders if this is the parenting style he takes with his own kids. “I will see you next week—let’s try to up the intake.”

And then he leaves Adam alone with the moms and Sharon, who’s waiting with Pedialyte and saltines. 

“I can feel my stomach moving,” Adam mumbles. They are all watching him, and Adam wishes he could do what he used to—shove it down his throat as quickly as possible just to make it stop—but he can’t make himself do it. 

All of him is being used to not explode into a panic attack until they get into the car.

Someone breaks down the task for him. 

Adam just wants to go home.

:: ::

When Adam is released from the kitchen, the next day, Ronan and Blue are sitting on the couches.

“Hey, Parrish,” Ronan says, standing quickly and immediately wrapping his arms tightly around Adam. Calla looks like she’s going to interfere, but it’s Ronan. Adam just leans a little bit into him, then sits next to him on the couch. 

Blue thinks that, even if everything else is shit, their weird brand of romantic subtext remains. 

“Hey,” Adam replies. He’s trying his best to not let the day show on his face, to make this normal. “How have you been, man?”

Ronan just shrugs, reaches over to take one of Adam’s long hands. “Missed having you around. I’m gonna fucking murder Gansey some day, I swear.” 

“Hey. That’s my boyfriend,” Blue interjects. Ronan just sticks his tongue out. 

“So what, maggot? He replaced all of the Mountain Dew with kombucha,” Ronan says. 

“What the actual fuck is that?” Adam asks, voice hoarse. Ronan has just been looking at Adam; if he wasn’t worried before, the fucking battery of rules Calla ran him through had done the job. No references to the corporeal form, no physical activity and/or dumbassery, and if Adam asks him to leave he has to do it immediately and without question. 

Adam looks fucking miserable. 

“I don’t even know, man, but it’s gross,” Ronan gets out. “I think crew is doing some weird thing.” 

“Oh,” Adam just says, picking at the sweatshirt sleeves. “Crew isn’t a real thing.” 

“That’s right. It’s bourgeois propaganda,” Blue agrees, curling up across from Ronan and Adam. “However, he is very into it, so if you’re mean to him, I will have to hear about it.”

“You signed up for it,” Adam mumbles. Ronan offers a fist-bump. After, Adam goes back to picking at his sweatshirt. 

“Hey, I got a really stupid game on my phone,” Ronan says. He hands it over to Adam.

When two hours pass, Ronan not only has Adam’s head in his lap, but the sweatshirt hood is hanging loosely off Adam’s back, Ronan’s fingers combing gently through Adam’s hair. He’s still fiddling with the device, but his eyes are slipping closer and closer to closed. 

Ronan doesn’t mind at all. Not just because Adam looks as fucked up as Ronan’s ever seen him, but because he wouldn’t mind doing this anytime or anywhere. 

“Time for a snack,” Persephone says, leaning against the doorframe to the room. “I know you’re not actually asleep, Adam.”

Adam sits up slowly, looks at Persephone like he’s begging to not have to. “Not hungry.”

But he follows her into the kitchen. 

“You might want to leave,” Blue says, when the door closes. “It’ll take a while and it won’t be pretty.” 

“No, I can wait,” Ronan says. 

He’d do anything just to make it all a little bit easier for Adam. Waiting an hour for Adam to eat some crackers is nothing.

:: ::

“You look tired,” Sarah leads with today. “Have you slept?”

“No,” Adam croaks out. “I am tired.”

“Why haven’t you been sleeping?” That’s a loaded question, Sarah knows it. But she doesn’t know all of it. 

There’s something crawling under Adam’s skin. As other things become easier, this hasn’t. It’s not easy. Leaving his room requires a five-minute pep-talk, clinging to strategies Sarah tells him as if they’ll make it easier, but he does it. When the anxiety balloons in his chest, infects his stomach, he still has to eat. It’s still hard. Working up the motivation to shower or brush his teeth or whatever, that’s another mountain, but they’ve switched soaps to stop equating showers with itchy, rashy skin, and he thinks that helps a little bit. 

But not the dreaming. 

It’s worse than ever. Apparently having just energy to think means he has enough to really dream, not just flashes of terror amongst blackout exhaustion. He’s dreaming about his dad, dreaming about Gansey’s future death, dreaming about everything and nothing and bringing back awful things along the way. 

So he doesn’t sleep at all. Doesn’t sleep until he’s tired enough that if he knocks back an Ativan he won’t dream. 

Adam learns that being trapped in a dream and unable to wake up isn’t worth the sleep. 

“Nightmares,” Adam summarizes. “Can’t sleep.”

“Adam,” Sarah starts, which means she’s really gearing up for something here. “Let’s try to break it down, then.” 

“Nothing to break down. They’re just there.” He knows he’s mumbling, knows he’s starting to shut down. Adam is just so tired. 

“Are you keeping yourself awake? Or are you too anxious to sleep?” Sarah asks first. Adam knows she can still see the bruises on his forearms from his last dream, knows the witches have told her about it. 

“I’m too tired to keep myself awake,” Adam answers. “I don’t know if it’s anxiety. Like it doesn’t feel exactly the same.”

“Can you elaborate a little bit?” Sarah nudges. Adam gives her the best sigh he can manage.

“It’s more anticipation. There’s dread, and it’s a lot, but it’s not my stomach physically trying to writhe out of my body,” Adam summarizes. 

“I would argue that it’s still anxiety, but less of a physical sensation. The fact that you’re associating sleep with dread is a problem.” Sarah is giving him the serious look, the one that means they’ve found their topic for the day. 

Adam doesn’t think he feels better at the end of it. He just feels tired. 

He’s so fucking tired. He knows that he has maybe two minutes before Calla or Maura or Persephone, or more likely a combination of them, make him go down to the kitchen and sit at the table until he eats. Adam doesn’t have the energy to fight the sudden tide of anxiety taking over his lungs at the thought. 

Adam closes his eyes instead. He dreams.

Cabeswater is gentle, this time. He thinks it can feel how hollowed out, how scraped raw, Adam is, or maybe he’s just tired enough that his imagination has finally fucked off. The trees are whispering, a gentle breeze ruffling through a place that’s suddenly warm and dry and green. It’s not the wasteland Adam is used to. 

He doesn’t even have to beg. A bottle of pills, generic and with a proper label, pressed into his hands. 

Adam wakes up. 

 

Somehow, he’s alone. He doesn’t know why, but he knows neither the witches nor Sarah would like this solution. It feels like the only one. It’s not to use every night, just when he’s so tired that his fingertips hurt. Like right now. 

So Adam tucks them under the shirts stacked in his drawer, and he’s just sitting back down on his bed when the door opens again. 

“Hey.” It’s Persephone. “Heard you moving around. You slept for a few hours, which is good.”

“Really?” Time is still hard for Adam, but it’s easier when the schedule has been so fucking regimented, lately. “Kind of just blacked out.” 

“I bet. You look a little better now, though,” she says. “Ready to go downstairs?” 

“Do I have to?” Adam asks. He feels stiff, like all his skin has been pulled taut, the sleep doing nothing for the exhaustion except granting more of it. 

“You have to eat, Adam,” Persephone says. “You’re doing so well. I know it’s been hard.” If anyone else had said that, fuck if Calla had said it, it would be a fight. Instead, Adam feels tears prick up in his itchy eyes, and he swallows back the lump in his throat. 

Adam just nods. Persephone places a hand on Adam’s back, rubs gentle circles over the knobs of his spine until it’s enough that Adam can make himself stand up and walk out of the room. She’s still talking about things Adam isn’t listening to, close behind him on the stairs. 

Calla and Maura are waiting in the kitchen. Blue is there, too. Wow, he really did sleep more than he thought. 

“Is this an intervention?” Adam asks, realizes his voice cracks only after the fact. 

“Good to see you have a sense of humor today,” Calla comments, placing a bowl and glass and spoon in front of Adam. “Drink the pedialyte first.” 

“Thanks, I hate it,” Adam gets out. 

“I see we’re communicating in only memes,” Blue shoots back. “I can’t believe you’ve done this.” 

“This bitch empty,” Adam mumbles under his breath. 

“Please, stop,” Calla interjects. “Blue, do you not have homework to do?” 

“Please let me do your math homework,” Adam begs. 

Maura just gives Adam a look. There’s a lot in it, part ‘please focus on the task at hand’, part ‘stop that line of thought Now’. 

“I’m gonna go now,” Blue says. “Ronan’s coming over in like an hour.” 

“Don’t leave me.” But Blue just ruffles Adam’s hair and leaves the room. 

“Adam,” Maura says, and it’s the only thing she says. Now that it’s possible for him to sit in a doctor’s exam room without completely losing his fucking mind, he’s vaguely aware that there about eighty-five strategies being used to try to get him to function by everyone around him.

One of them is to not make it a big deal. There’s no begging or asking or reminding, just silence as Adam tries to choke down as much of the oatmeal as he can. 

Ronan’s waiting in the living room. That’s another thing. He can’t be alone after he eats. 

“Hey,” Adam says, drops his head into Ronan’s lap without pretense. 

There’s never any pretense with Ronan. Adam is too tired for all of that, now, but it doesn’t matter. Ronan doesn’t care if Adam lays on top of him, or if he’s curled on the other opposite end of the room. Whatever Adam wants, Ronan is fine with. Ronan won’t ask questions, won’t do anything but run his hand through Adam’s hair. No matter how long it’s been since he washed it, no matter if Adam can’t get himself to force any words out. 

Ronan’s playing with his hair now. His fingers can never sit still, but he won’t jiggle his thigh or anything else but play with separating strands while he waits for himself to figure out what’s happening that day. 

Today, Adam takes a nap. 

_”Damn, you live like this?” Ronan is just sitting in a tree dripping acid. Adam had forgotten that Calla has been teaching him how to scry into dreams._

_“Get out,” Adam says. He doesn’t know what’s coming, but it won’t be good. “I’m not fucking around, Ronan.”_

_“No. I think I’m gonna stay,” Ronan says. Adam tries to focus, tries to kick Ronan out, but all it does is make Ronan reappear right next to Adam. “Good try.”_

_Adam wants to reply, but that’s when his control slips with anger._

_“Is this just a room of number three pencils?” Ronan asks. “What the fuck kind of academic stress dream?”_

_It is, in fact._

_“Please just get out,” Adam begs._

_They’re popping from nightmare to nightmare—Adam knows his brain is too wrecked to just focus on one shitty dream, so why not just relieve them all?_

_Adam has just emerged, coughing, from a drowning one when he and Ronan end up back in Cabeswater._

_“Man, what the actual fuck?” Ronan asks. “That was, like, whiplash.”_

_“You’re welcome to leave whenever,” Adam says, and then he feels the wind change. He can’t do this shit again._

_That’s when Robert Parrish stalks up. Cabeswater is going ape-shit; Ronan falls out of his branch perch, and Adam just closes his eyes._

_This is why he doesn’t sleep._

 

Adam wakes up, gasping on the couch. He’s only brought back a bruised cheek, but Ronan is holding on tight, rocking them both while he waits for Adam’s breath to even out. 

He takes a dreamless sleep pill that night. It just knocks him out. No dreams, no nightmares, nothing but blackness. 

It’s not for every night, but just for when he can’t take it anymore. It’s no different than Ativan, just a little bit stronger, a little bit different. It’s not a problem.

:: ::

It’s not a problem, until it is. It’s one of the days where everything is impossible. One of those few days. He had a nightmare on Monday, one that left him gasping and choking for air around bruises that lined his neck. Adam hasn’t slept since.

Every morning, Persephone comes into his room. He’s staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t want to get up. Every part of him feels heavy, and the thought of moving is too much. She speaks to him softly, asks and reasons and reassures, but he can’t. It takes so long, so much effort, and it doesn’t stop every part of him from feeling the exhaustion. 

There’s no options today. There are appointments. 

“Can we just cancel?” Adam asks. They’ve given up on solid food, this week. Well, at least Adam has. 

“Nope,” Calla says. “It won’t be long. Just the dietician. Then Sarah when we get home.” 

“Can’t we just weigh me here? Like that’s the bulk of what I need to be physically present for,” Adam argues. 

“You know we can’t,” Maura answers. “I’ll get you whatever you want to eat after.” 

“McDonald’s Sprite,” Adam says, and he thinks it’s an indicator of how this day is going for everyone that Maura just nods. 

“Let’s get in the car, then,” Calla says. Adam resists the urge to pull his sweatshirt up over his face, because maybe if he looks less suspect they’ll let him keep it on. 

They did not. 

It’s the first week in a while where Adam’s lost weight. He’s used to the constant lecture about how he shouldn’t be exerting himself and how he’s still at a very unhealthy weight and they still need to be pushing calories and… 

This is a new lecture. 

“I know,” Adam says, as soon as the dietician walks in. “You don’t have to say it.” 

“That’s a bold claim,” Calla says. 

“We do have to talk about it,” the dietician leads with. “It’s not a good indicator.”

“It’s like one pound,” Adam says. “I’m not dying, anymore. Or whatever.” 

“That is possibly the worst summary I have heard,” the dietician says. Adam guesses they’re just at that point of their relationship. “He’s lost about 1.2 pounds, which is a deviation of about three pounds from what we expected. That’s not good.” 

“I think my summary was fine then,” Adam says. “It’s been a week.”

“This cannot become a pattern. He is barely out of the extreme danger zone,” the dietician continues, “and he has a while to go before he’s at a healthy weight.” 

“It’s not a pattern,” Adam says. “It’s chill.” 

“I’m going to choose to go with the explanation that you’re just overtired and that’s the reason behind the words coming out of your mouth,” Maura says. “How bad of a setback is it?”

“It’s not that it’s a setback, but it’s an indication of quickly his body will dip into the negative reserves,” the dietician answers. 

Adam chooses to stop listening after that. 

He sips on the McDonald’s sprite, considers it lunch, while Calla and Maura talk about how they’re going to have to try harder on the solid food. Adam is just so fucking tired. It’s the kind that makes his eyes itch. He can feel his skin crawling, his head simultaneously spinning and heavy. He can feel it in his fingertips, in his bones, stretching across his ribs and squeezing tight. 

Adam just wants to fucking sleep. 

He doesn’t really talk to Sarah, just lets her talk about her dogs and her succulents and about shutting down. It’s kind of nice, but it’s not enough to calm him down. 

Fuck it. 

It’s like 4 pm, but he thinks the pill isn’t strong enough to KO him through dinner. Fuck it. Maybe taking two will just send him into a deeper sleep.

He takes them, hides the bottle again. 

Adam falls asleep.

:: ::

“Adam,” a voice says, somewhere far away. “Adam, it’s time to wake up.”

It’s so hard. Every atom is begging Adam to give back into unconsciousness. There’s a gentle shaking on his shoulder, that makes it impossible. It also makes him feel like a ship in a storm. 

“I’m awake,” he forces out, hearing how it comes out half-mumble, half-slur. The shaking doesn’t stop, so Adam forces his eyes open. 

“Hey.” He thinks it’s Calla leaning over him, but honestly Adam can’t put much together. Oh, fuck. 

How’s he gonna hide being this fucking stoned? 

“Sorry. ‘M awake now,” Adam gets out, forces himself to sit up even though everything feels so fucking heavy. He’s got to try to appear normal. He doesn’t think he can get away with blaming this on Ativan. 

His eyes aren’t working quite right, but Calla is definitely giving him some kind of look.

“Uh, okay,” she says. “It’s time for dinner.” 

“Cool cool cool cool cool,” Adam says, swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up. The room starts to move like a tilt-a-whorl, but he thinks he does a good job of covering the dizziness. 

(He does not.) 

Somehow, even though the stairs bend with every step, Adam makes it down, makes it to the kitchen table and only runs into the doorframe once along the way. 

“Hey, dude,” Blue says uneasily, as Adam just stares at the napkin and spoon in front of him. She can see how bloodshot his eyes are, how it’s all just a little bit glazed over, how he’s really having to put the effort into staying awake. “You good?”

“Great,” Adam says. “Perfect.” He picks up the spoon from the wrong end. He has no fucking clue what’s in front of him—everything is blurry and sound isn’t moving right and he’s just still so fucking tired. 

Putting his head on the table seems like the better option. 

“—and he definitely took something,” Blue says, some period of time later. 

“It wasn’t a prescription. We didn’t give him anything,” Maura responds. 

Adam tries to lift his head. He feels like he should have something to add. 

“Hey, are you awake again?” Maura asks, a hand at Adam’s back. Adam manages a nod. 

“Can I go to bed?” Adam doesn’t even register that it comes out as a slur. “Tired.” 

“Yeah, but we have to talk first,” Calla says. Adam just puts his head back down on the table. 

“Okay. Sleep here then,” he decides. Something pinches his arm, and he grumbles a response but makes no effort to get up. Something pinches him again. 

“Stop it,” he says, turns his head to the side away from Calla. 

“Did you take an Ativan?” Maura presses. “Or, like, four?” 

“No. don’t like them,” Adam says. Someone is rubbing his back now, and Adam likes that it feels warm. 

“Can you pick your head up for us?” Calla or Maura or Persephone or whoever asks, (he can’t tell if it’s the deaf ear that’s making it hard to track or just, you know, dream drugs) and Adam just shakes his head. “Please?” 

It’s so much effort, but Adam does it. 

Calla is just staring at him. “What did you take?” 

Adam comes to the sudden realization he’s too tired to go through the normal fight. He’ll end up telling them, anyway.

“Didn’t want to dream,” he says. “I’m so tired.” 

“So what did you take?” Maura asks, her voice so gentle. “Ativan?”

“No,” Adam mumbles. “Dreamed ‘em.” 

The silence rings through Adam’s deaf ear. It’s like for one second, all of the feeling the haze around him has been protecting Adam from punches through at once. 

He’s fucked up. He’s fucked up so bad.

“Oh fuck,” Adam says. “Shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

“You dreamed them?” Calla presses, voice quiet and gentle. Adam thinks it only sounds a little scared. “Okay. Okay. Let’s get you to bed.” 

“Are you mad?” Adam asks, even as he feels hands guiding him to stand. “Please don’t be mad.” 

“Let’s just go lay down,” Calla says. Adam’s eyes immediately water. “I’m not mad. I’m just very, very concerned.” 

“You’re mad,” Adam says, and his lip trembles the entire way up the stairs. “I’m sorry.” 

“Okay,” Calla says. “Before you go back to sleep, I need to know a few things, okay?” 

“Okay,” Adam agrees, even as he lays down on his bed. His face is largely in his pillow, but he lets whoever turn him onto his side. 

“Where are these pills?” Calla asks. 

“Under my shirts,” Adam mumbles. “Before you ask, took two.” 

Calla immediately fishes them out, stares at the nondescript bottle and sighs. “Are you feeling at all nauseous, and does your stomach hurt? This is really important.” 

“Little nauseous. Mostly tired,” Adam gets out. “Can I go back to sleep?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna wake you up in an hour, though,” Calla says, but Adam’s eyes have already closed. 

It feels like he’s just blinked when someone’s shaking his shoulder. 

This time, the entire room spins. He feels awful—he can’t pinpoint the face above his in the swirling mass of color, can’t sit up without immediately putting his head between his knees. Everything is so far away and yet far too close, and he can’t keep up with his eyes and his ears at the same time. 

“Adam, you have to talk to me.” He thinks that’s Maura, and suddenly he knows that it’s her. It’s her hand on his back. He focuses on that. 

“Don’t feel good,” he gets out. 

“We should take him to the ER,” Calla says. “He’s still not tracking.” 

“Shit,” Adam says. “Just need to sleep. I’m good.” 

“You’re not good,” Calla replies instantly. “I doubt whatever the fuck this is will show on a tox screen. We can probably just explain it as he accidentally took a Benadryl with his Ativan or something.” 

“It’s fine,” Adam tries again. “Just lemme go back to sleep.” 

“Nope,” someone says. “Are you nauseous?” 

“Always,” Adam responds, completely seriously. “It’s that anxiety, bro.” 

“Okay, but more than normal?” That’s Calla, again. 

“Yup. Kind of want to throw up,” Adam admits. “Calla’s gonna be mad, though.” 

Calla and Maura exchange exactly one look. There’s so much that they need to address, but not when Adam is this high. They get him a rubbermaid, rub Adam’s back when he weakly spits up some bile and pedialyte into it. 

Someone slips shoes onto his feet, helps him down the stairs. They have to stop halfway down, because Adam tries to fall to the side and it takes a second for Calla to right him. 

Blue is waiting with the car keys. 

She sits next to Adam, keeps him leaned against her and occasionally flicks his cheek or nose when his eyes start to flutter closed. 

“Stay awake,” is all the explanation she offers. 

“When did you get here?” Adam asks, as they’re pulling into the lot. “Did you just… apparate into the car?”

“I knew letting you read Harry Potter was a shitty idea,” is all Blue says. “Come on, man. Shit’s about to get less fun.” 

“That’s possible?” Adam asks, but then someone is getting him out of the car. He allows himself to be led, just this once, because he has no idea what the fuck is going on. Adam thinks he recognizes the waiting room, so he goes to sit in the nearest chair-shaped object and wait for the inevitable ‘he hasn’t been eating again’ conversation, but someone catches him before he can. 

“Wrong chair,” Blue says, and then he’s in one that’s moving. There’s a better word for that, but Adam doesn’t want to crash his two brain cells together just yet. 

There’s so many people. 

He thinks he recognizes Julie and Shaun, the two most common E.R. nurses he’s seen, and he knows the moms are probably there, though he can’t actually see him. Someone is helping him lay down again, and then they ask a lot of questions. 

“Don’t shine the light,” Adam says, as a light is shone in his eyes. “Fuck.”

Someone inserts an IV, which sounds about right. The questions don’t stop, but Adam realizes that it’s just the nurses and there’s no moms. 

“Where are the moms?” Adam asks, turning his head to the side to look at Julie. Julie is nice; Shaun always wants to talk about how Adam has ended up there again. It’s been a few weeks since he’s been, though. 

“We’ll bring them back in a few minutes,” Julie promises. “The doctor needs to be sure of a few more things first. How’s breathing?”

“Feels normal,” Adam gets out, and he can’t register a lot but he knows that was probably not the right answer. 

“Start him on flumazenil,” Adam hears, and he thinks that probably isn’t ideal. “Close monitoring.” 

“Oh, shit,” Adam says. “This isn’t good. The moms are gonna be mad.” 

“Just relax, okay? No one is mad.” He thinks that’s Shaun. “I’m going to go get them now. They just had to fill out some paperwork.” 

Someone else snaps a bracelet around Adam’s wrist. 

“I was just tired,” Adam says. “Fucked up. Know I fucked it up.” 

“We can fix it. It’ll be okay.” That’s Julie. Adam likes her, because they don’t really talk. She doesn’t give him or the moms a hard time, normally. She doesn’t try to talk when he doesn’t want to, and she always gets the vein on the first try. 

“I’ve been eating, though,” Adam says. “Even solid food. Not this week, but yeah.” He feels like it’s important that she knows that he did that one thing right. 

“That’s really good, Adam,” she says. “I’m going to take your vitals again, okay?” Adam stops focusing, because Maura and Calla and Persephone are all there. 

“Hey,” he says. “Something’s happening.”

“Yeah. They’re giving you some medicine,” Calla says. She’s looking at Shaun, who’s looking at a monitor closely. 

“You’re mad,” Adam says, and it takes all of his energy to focus on Maura’s face. 

“We’re not mad. We’ll discuss things later,” Maura says. “You can go to sleep, if you’re tired.”

“Where’s Blue?” Adam asks instead. “She was here.”

“She’s in the waiting room,” Persephone says gently. “She knows you’re going to be okay, though.”

“M sorry,” Adam just says. “Shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah, but it happened,” Maura says. “So we’re going to change some things, and it’s not going to happen again.” 

Adam feels his eyes start to water. 

“I’m just so tired,” he says. “Can’t sleep. Don’t want to dream.” 

He doesn’t feel a lot, but it feels like the end of his rope. Adam just can’t handle it, between the dreaming and the forcing himself to do things that he shouldn’t have to fucking think about. He just wants to be able to breathe. To sleep, to breathe, to eat. He wants to go outside without feeling like he’s going to die, wants to have the energy to crash grocery carts with Ronan and go to Cabeswater and school and everything else. 

Adam is crying. There’s no denying it now. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, a hoarse thing that’s more whispered than anything. “Didn’t mean to.”

Persephone’s hand covers his own. 

“It’s okay,” she says, and then Adam cries harder. He has nothing left: he’s out of energy, out of defenses, out of reasons to care that he’s crying in public. 

Julie has seen a lot, but she couldn’t have predicted this. Adam Parrish, until now, has been her favorite recurring ER patient: eating issues being followed by professionals, only needs some fluid and sugar to get through. He’s quiet, doesn’t yell at nurses, doesn’t put up a fight. She knows he’s a foster kid, but until know that’s all she’s known. There’s so much more. He felt so exhausted and so afraid of his dreams that he accidentally combined two benzodiazepines, and it was when she thought things were actually getting better. 

But these foster moms, she thinks they’re one of the only good things. He’s called them the witches a lot, but she knows he’s okay with staying with them, that Adam at least trusts them. 

And he called them the moms. Sure, he’s stoned on some strong drugs, but he said it.

It’s something. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo this is so bad and im sorry. feel free to @ me here or @thoseunheard on tumblr. i promise chapter 3 is gonna be a little more Upbeat. shit gets worse before it gets better - a chapter summary

**Author's Note:**

> lmk what you think! here or @ thoseunheard on tumblr! all chapter titles/fic title from sky full of song by florence and the machine or cherry wine by hozier


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